Professor Layton and the Unforgettable Hot Mess
by SamCyberCat
Summary: Layton learns that perhaps it is possible for someone to be worse at cooking than Flora. He just didn't expect that lesson to come in the form of Clive.


**Notes:** Written for a kinkmeme prompt that wanted a crack fic, where the only requirement was that it be called "Professor Layton and the Unforgettable Hot Mess" and bonus points for whatever happens somehow being Clive's fault. I just couldn't pass this one up! Set several years post-PL3, with heavy spoilers for that game. Not as smutty as the title implies.

* * *

You're really the only person suitable to become his appointed carer, Mr. Layton.

The Professor wasn't ever sure whether that was some twisted form of punishment or not. Though he couldn't really blame it on Bill Hawks, as even if the former Prime Minister hadn't lost his seat of power years ago, he knew that Bill wanted nothing more than for Clive to remain behind bars for the rest of his life. Or else to be shot. Whichever he could legally achieve.

So when, after several years of imprisonment, Clive had been granted freedom under the condition that he was watched by a carer at all times, Layton was conveniently the only person who fit the shoes of being able to be that carer.

It hadn't been an easy routine to adjust to, what with Layton having his own job at Gressenheller University that he needed to attend to. But over time they'd developed some sort of a system. That system may have meant that Clive had to sit in on his archaeology classes, but neither of them really seemed to mind that arrangement, despite how initially awkward it had seemed for a grown man like Clive to even need a carer.

All Clive really wanted was a chance to atone for his crimes. And while the situation came at a slight inconvenience to Layton, he had to admit that wanting to do so was a noble intention on Clive's part. It was just a shame that, given his crimes, there was no way that Clive could be allowed into a normal society under enough freedom to hold a job of his own. And having to be around Layton at all times severely limited what he could do with the limited freedom that he was granted.

Although he tried to hide it, Layton knew that at times Clive suffered with the grave boredom that must come from having to listen to the same lectures over and over about a subject that you weren't interested in, such as the archaeology classes that he doubted Clive cared for.

At home however, he came more into his element. Even if that brought up the scenario of how sheltered Clive's life with the Dove family had been. Sure, he'd been knowledgeable enough to build an underground city and had undoubtedly seen a lot of the world from his time as a reporter, but when it came to being at home, Clive was about as clueless about housework as someone who'd be raised by the rich could often be expected to be.

This matter became worse after Flora left home, as Layton himself was a bit of a clutter-bug. They ended up being two men, living in a house without much of an idea how to care for it.

Over time, they had both risen to the occasion. For all he wasn't the best at it, Clive was at least willing to learn. The housework always got done eventually, clean clothes would always turn up once the lack of clean clothes had been established, and dinner was always on the table. Though the last part was down to Layton. Living for years with Flora's unfortunately inedible cooking had meant that he'd become well-versed in that particular subject.

One day, however, Clive had brought up that he wanted to give it a try.

"It can't be that hard, can it?" he said.

"You'd be surprised," Layton chuckled, "Flora tried her hardest, but even the simplest of recipes would sadly elude her."

Clive nodded; "You can say that again." He hadn't forgotten the mutton korma she'd once made, complete with strawberry laces instead of spaghetti and ominous burnt crispy bits instead of… um, presumably raisins. She certainly was an experimental cook, if not a successful one; "But I think that I should give it a try, at least once," he pressed.

"Have you ever cooked before?" checked Layton.

"No," Clive confessed, "My… my mum always used to when I lived at home and the servants took care of it after Constance adopted me." When he mentioned his mother, he tried to keep the emotion out of his voice. It was hard, but he needed to talk about those events like a normal, adjusted person who had accepted their parents' deaths would do. That was what society wanted of him.

Layton picked up on it, however, and perhaps out of sympathy replied, "Very well then, I won't stop you from trying. But don't pressure yourself too much."

"A bit of pressure might be just what I need," said Clive, trying to shrug off the thoughts of his mother.

Though Layton had his doubts, he wasn't a man to stop someone with determination. This had, however, turned out to be a mistake.

Within an hour, thick, grey smoke was billowing out from the kitchen.

"What's going on in here?" Layton called, rushing to the door, "Are you all right?"

He had been distracted with reading a book in his study. So much so, that he'd neglected to see the signs of destruction before now.

"E-everything's fine! Nothing to worry about!" Clive called, unconvincingly, from somewhere in the gloom, "Go back to whatever you were doing."

"For the safety of my kitchen, I don't feel I can do that," replied Layton, barging through. He couldn't see a thing in front of his face…

Clive coughed; "This is hardly the first time your kitchen has been in danger!"

"Yes, but at least Flora never managed to burn it down," retorted Layton, "Let me open a window, if nothing else."

"All right. Um, where are you, anyway?" Clive asked.

Layton glanced around and replied, "I'm actually not sure. But I can't be that far from the window, this room isn't that big. Just give me a moment."

He reached out, hoping to grab onto the table to give him a sense of bearing.

What he actually grabbed onto, was something soft and definitely not table-like at all.

Clive yelped, throwing whatever he'd been holding into the air. It came down with a clatter, bouncing off Layton's hand and covering them both with a burning substance, before landing on the floor with a metallic clang.

They both screamed.

"That was my crotch!" yelled Clive.

"Never mind about your crotch! Whatever that was, it's burning my arm off!" hissed Layton, releasing his grip to clutch at his stinging arm.

"That's a nice way to talk about the stew I was making for you!" Clive protested, though it was a rather weak testimony in face of the pain he was feeling from where the mess had splashed onto him.

"Just… open the window…" pleaded Layton.

Not wanting to argue with that one, Clive reached over, groping around on the counter until he eventually located the clasp and pushed the window open. The smoke gushed out into the freedom of the evening air. It must have looked like quite a sight for the neighbours.

After a few moments, the air in the kitchen cleared enough for them to both see what was going on. The discarded pan had rolled across the floor, before having settled against the leg of the table, where it dripped out the remainder of its contents that hadn't splattered across Layton and Clive.

The two men just stared at each other. Between them, Layton had easily suffered the most damage, stew smeared all over the front of his shirt, as well as the arm he'd used to grab Clive. Undoubtedly, there was a bruise forming under his sleeve, where the pan had hit him.

Clive hadn't got off scot-free either though, as some of the stew had hit him in an awkward enough place to make it seem like he'd had an accident.

Glancing down, he commented, "Looks like my lower half is suffering a lot of indignity today."

In light of everything, they couldn't help but laugh at themselves after that.

"We should probably wash this off before we're too badly burned," said Layton, once they'd finished laughing.

"Yeah, and I think we can abandon dinner for lost," replied Clive, before adding, "I'll never criticize Flora's cooking again."

"I should hope not," Layton agreed, "You can say what you like about her food, but nothing she's made has ever attacked me before. This is one meal that I won't be forgetting anytime soon."

"I'm going to try again tomorrow," Clive said, adamantly.

"You're not."

"I am."

"We can argue about this later," concluded Layton, "For now, let's just get into some clean clothing. And I insist that we're eating out today, even if that is an odd reward to give you for attacking me."

"Me attacking you? You were the one who grabbed my private parts!" Clive protested.

"Quite by accident, I can assure you. Now, are you coming or staying?" Layton pressed.

The answer was obvious; "I'm coming. Just give me a moment to clear up in here."

"Glad to hear it," hummed Layton, "Now, if you'll excuse me."

He left the room with slightly more haste than was considered gentlemanly. Clive tried not smirk at the sight.

At least, if he ever wanted to brag, he could claim to have covered Professor Layton in a hot mess that he wouldn't soon forget.


End file.
